


Old Times

by Fyre



Series: A Little Kindness [13]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Slow Show - mia_ugly
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-20 06:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: At least they were staying at Sarah’s. He didn’t know if he could face going into his parents’ house when no one else was there. It already stood like a mausoleum to some of the bitter and miserable memories of his childhood, but at least his dad – taciturn and grumbling – had been there to stave off the silence.
Series: A Little Kindness [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628107
Comments: 24
Kudos: 123





	Old Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mia_ugly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/gifts).



The kids had finally been chased off to bed, protesting all the while. Mercifully, Tommy and Tracy were taking care of it, giving Avery and Sarah five minutes peace for the first time since he’d arrived at the hospital.

Avery sank down to sit on the couch, gathering up a few of the toys and books that were scattered on the floor and moving them to the side in a marginally neater heap. Not like he knew where to put them, really. He hadn’t visited in far too long.

At least they were staying at Sarah’s. He didn’t know if he could face going into his parents’ house when no one else was there. It already stood like a mausoleum to some of the bitter and miserable memories of his childhood, but at least his dad – taciturn and grumbling – had been there to stave off the silence.

Now, his chair would be empty and Avery didn’t – couldn’t face seeing that. Not now. Not yet.

He was going to be fine. Weaker, yes, frailer, yes, but alive. Once he was home, once he was back in that bloody nightmare of a chair, once the status quo reasserted itself, it would all be _fine_. Back to the old routine. Everything safe and normal and _nothing_ to raise any alarms.

The door squeaked open again and Sarah returned, a mug in each hand.

“Here.” She handed one down to him, then sat down beside him. “Put in an extra sugar. I think we’ve earned it.”

“Mm.” He wrapped his hands around the mug, leeching away some of the heat. “How are you holding up?”

She shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “About as well as you can.” She turned her mug, then blew on the contents. “Could’ve done without finding him in that state. Nearly gave me a bleeding heart attack as well.”

“Not surprised,” he murmured, shifting sideways a bit, pressing his shoulder against hers.

Sarah leaned into him, knocking her head against his. “Sorry to pull you off your tour thing.”

“Sarah–”

“No, I am,” she insisted. “Your job… I know it’s daft, but it means a lot to everyone up here.” She met his eyes, hers so like his own. “You know that, you pillock. Don’t you try and tell me it doesn’t matter.”

He nodded, feeling small and humbled and tired. “It’s dad, Sarah.”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes were too bright and wet and both of them looked back at their cups, trying to pretend they hadn’t noticed. She sniffed hard and sipped her tea. He did the same. Easier that way. Easier to act like they were both fine.

His cup was almost empty when she spoke again, her voice steadier. “So… Anthony Crowley.”

Avery didn’t even try to hide the wavering smile. “Yes.”

“Good of him to bring you all the way up.”

It was. And the thought of it made his eyes burn and his throat tighten. How they had driven up together, how Crowley knew him well enough to reach over and hold his hand, wordlessly holding him together when he thought he might crack apart at the seams.

It had all been so… much.

Everything had been so lovely and peaceful and tender and _safe_ at the cottage.

And then it had all coming crashing down and no matter what happened, he had a horrible, stomach-twisting feeling that they would never be able to get back to it again. Not as it was. Not now that two facets of Avery’s life had so suddenly and sharply overlapped.

She laughed and it sounded as tired and wrung out as he felt. “D’you have any idea how much that messed with my head, Ave?” He blinked at her in confusion and she made a face at him. “Running on fumes and adrenaline and then the actor I fancied when I was fifteen is suddenly standing in front of me.”

“I’d forgotten about that,” he said with a small, crooked grin that was almost real. Her and her rom coms and the latest pretty young actor. Safe to say she wasn’t watching for the acting. “You had so many crushes back then.”

“Yeah,” she said, rolling her eyes, “but not all of them show up when I’m having the shittiest day to end all shitty days.” She nudged him. “Can you tell him I don’t always jump on random people I’ve never met before?”

He loosened one hand from his mug to squeeze her hand. “I think he could guess. Not exactly your everyday encounter.”

Sarah threaded her fingers through his, gazing at their hands. “I was scared,” she confessed in a whisper. “Christ, Ave, when they rushed him straight off to theatre and I didn’t know if he’d come out of it–” Her body folded in on itself. “I didn’t – I thought – I didn’t want that to be the last time I saw him alive.”

And fat tears spilled down her cheeks and God, he hated to see her cry, always had.

“Ey now,” he said gently, putting his mug down and pulling her into a hug. “He’s a leathery old bastard is our dad. It’d take more than a heart attack to bring him down.” He rubbed his cheek on her hair. “Did he ever tell you about the time he single-handedly brought down a German bomber over the Tees?”

Sarah gave a wet laugh. “Yeah. Bleedin’ miracle, that. Eight year olds bringing down the Nazis.”

Avery managed a smile, but his eyes were wet too. “We’re a tough lot, up here.”

“Honestly, wouldn’t put it past Penny to give it a go in a couple of years. It’s that or criminal mastermind, the way she’s going.” She exhaled a long, shaky sigh and scrubbed at her cheek with her hand. “Fuck me, I need a drink.” She met his eyes, raised her eyebrows. “Want one?”

Last night, there had been wine and delicious food and warm hands on his skin. It had been something new and lovely and ineffably wonderful. And then the world had fallen down and he was back in a town that made his skin feel too tight and his face ache.

Now, he was tired and sad and hollowed from the inside out and God, a drink sounded marvellous.

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”


End file.
